


In Thy Orisions Be

by Mad_Maudlin



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Crossgen, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 14:43:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The past belongs in the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Thy Orisions Be

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: All the forces of nature have been conspiring against me to prevent the completion of this fic. Well, okay, actually it was just a stomach flu and the utility company...but "the forces of nature" sounds much more dramatic. This is dedicated to all five of you who have not gone into pre-book hibernation.
> 
> This is quite a departure for me; it's not the weirdest thing I've ever written, but damn close. For the record, I still believe that Canon!Snape keeps his penis in a jar by the bet and only takes it out for special occasions; I blame [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/thetreacletart/profile)[**thetreacletart**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/thetreacletart/) for this bunny. I blame the Tart a _lot._

The Weasley boy had been staring at him for two weeks the first time it happened. Severus had resigned himself to the fact he wouldn't be rid of Granger and had been instructed by Dumbledore himself to allow Potter to take his NEWT course, but the presence of the third member of their little troika had been an unpleasant and unwelcome surprise. Weasley had earned the requisite marks on his OWLs and had apparently expressed ambitions towards becoming an Auror; Severus could not care any less about his students' future plans and was inclined to explain the boy's score as evidence of the examiners' senility. The fact remained, however, that Weasley was enrolled in sixth-year Potions and Severus could not easily get rid of him.

And from the first day of the term, he stared.

Small glances, at first, when the class was meant to be taking notes. Peeks from behind his textbook. Sidelong looks during meals when his housemates were distracted. Then longer periods of examination, unblinking stares that broke off as soon as he realized that Severus had seen him looking. Why he should have become such a compelling figure in the eyes of this particular youth Severus could not fathom, but by the end of the second week of classes it had progressed from an unusual new habit to an irritating and infuriating constant. But so long as the boy only stared, Severus could take no official action, and could in fact scarcely justify what little unofficial action he indulged insingling out the boy's work for criticism, questioning him closely during lectures, denial of marks. It should not have been a problem. He was merely staring.

"Does it give you the heebie-jeebies, Severus?" Phyllodia Sprout had asked when she overheard him mention it to Minerva.

"Hardly," Severus had sneered.

But by the third week of the term, his patience had reached its end.

He watched the students file into the classroom, the three Gryffindors at the very rear. Weasley nearly walked past the table where the other two sat, then pulled out the wrong textbook and attempted to read it upside-down; he had to be corrected by Granger. Such behavior had become nearly as commonplace as the staring, and Severus wondered if there was a single cause, or if Weasley simply aspired to assume Longbottom's position at the bottom of the class.

The students fell silent as Severus stepped to the podium, and Weasley commenced his staring as Severus commenced his lecture. "Today we will be brewing the Draught of Despair according to the notes you took last week. I need not remind you how much care must be taken during this process, lest the potion begin to release highly toxic vapors. The mumblegumble venom and amaranth stalks are available at the front of the room. You have forty-five minutes." Granger was already trying to shove her notes under Weasley's oblivious nose. "You will work alone."

He looked directly at Weasley for the briefest moment, and a peculiar expression crossed the boy's face before he hastily turned away. Severus could not immediately identify it, though it was more than guilt or annoyance, and certainly not the blanket contempt with which Potter had been showering him all term. He was accustomed to Weasley going about with his emotions writ plain on his freckled face; this sudden subtly was in its own way as unwelcome as the constant staring.

There was one way to investigate. Severus was not supposed to use Legilimency on his studentsAlbus disliked the ideabut he saw no point in avoiding a practical and essentially harmless tool. He had in fact perfected a way to quickly and unobtrusively glance into the minds of others for just that purpose; it was insufficient to pick up more than surface emotion and what thoughts were nearest at hand, but for a guilty student that was usually all he needed. And given Weasley's newest and most irritating habit, achieving eye contact would not be a problem.

Severus waited until Weasley approached him for the amaranth stalksone of the first students to do so, in spite of his otherwise underwhelming performance in recent lessons. Severus moved to place the stalks in the boy's outstretched hand, but at the last minute flicked his wrist and sent them tumbling to the floor. Weasley was a heartbeat too slow to catch them.

"Careful, Mr. Weasley," Severus said, calculating his tone.

Weasley glared at him, the oh-so-convenient default reaction of most students to such a maneuver. Severus locked his gaze and quickly _reached_

superficial annoyance, masking a deep rainbow of feelings, confusion-disgust-shame-guilt-rage-desire

_sweaty bodies, stale sheets, pain-pleasure as his lover moved above and within him, face contorted by sensation as he groaned out a name_

Severus mentally recoiled and physically stepped away. Weasley's scowl slipped, and melted into panic. "Return to your cauldron," Severus snapped as he composed himself, and the boy could not have moved faster without running.

It was, completely meaningless. He did not concern himself with the sexual perversions of the studentry. He certainly could not punish the boy for fantasizing during class. Severus crossed the room to critique the Brocklehurst girl's work, and did his best to dismiss the images from his mind. He would have to look for another cause behind this aberrant behavior, perhaps one that could justify the boy's dismissal from the class.

But Severus could not quite forgot that the face of Weasley's dream lover had been familiar, or that the name he had called was not the boy's, although it did begin with 'R.'

-x-X-x-X-x-

The second time, Weasley began it. Severus had done his best to ignore the boy's persistent staring and to resist the temptation to investigate his mind further; it was not worth the effort, and if he allowed every strange child who passed through his classroom to perturb him so he would soon be as paranoid as Alastor Moody. For a further three weeks Severus behaved himself, with the half-formed thought that Weasley would perhaps simply snap out of itwhatever "it" may be.

Weasley, unfortunately, spent those three weeks staring more than ever, and his health appeared to be in decline: dark smudges formed under his eyes, and there seemed to be a serious drop in his supply of freckles. Granger seemed not to know over which of her precious boys she ought to be hovering. Severus noted these developments, but as he was not responsible for his students' personal well-being he devoted no more mental energy to them than to the flash of memory he had picked up in Weasley's mind.

But Severus could not ignore Weasley's conduct in the classroom, and when the boy spent the first twenty minutes of a lecture staring at him with a dry quill dangling slack in his hand, action was required.

"...must be prepared in advance using a pickling fluid consisting of no less than seven percent distilled vinegar and a saturating volume of sea salt. Can you repeat that, Mr. Weasley?"

Heads all over the classroom rose and turned towards the offender, who did not so much as twitch.

Severus advanced down the aisle, meeting Weasley's gaze. His expression was blank, but his eyes followed Severus' motion. "Mr. Weasley, did you hear what I just said?" Severus asked, stopping inches away from the boy.

Weasley didn't move or speak, only stared. Granger hissed his name under her breath without effect. Severus leaned forward, peering into those unblinking blue eyes, and prepared his mind to reach

And then Weasley started, nearly jolting himself out of his chair and clapping one hand over his knee. He looked around as though he'd never seen the classroom before, breathing heavily, blinking madly. And, if Severus wasn't mistaken, Potter was slipping his wand back into his bag with the expression of someone with a certain amount of skill at Stinging Hexes.

He glared at Potter, who raised his chin defiantly. The brat had only put off the inevitable. "Mr. Weasley," he said; the boy looked at him, blushed a delicate shade of maroon and averted his eyes. "I will speak with you in my office after class."

"Y-yes, Professor."

"I think he needs to see Madame Pomfrey, professor," Granger said anxiously.

"I did not ask your opinion, Miss Granger."

He finished the lecture with Potter and Granger glaring at him while Weasley, for a change, avoided meeting his eyes. At the end of the lesson they all three dawdled longer than Severus had thought humanly possible, with Potter throwing him the occasional venomous glare as if Severus were going to deflower his friend with a stirring rod the moment his back was turned. When he and Granger finally departed, Weasley cast a longing glance at their backshow touchingthen marched into Severus' office with the mien of a man facing his executioner.

Severus sat behind his desk; Weasley sat gingerly in the opposite chair. "Explain yourself, Mr. Weasley."

Weasley licked his lips and fixed his eyes on a specimen jar. "I...I'm sorry, Professor, I reckon I dozed off."

"Are you prone to staring at people in your sleep?"

The boy flushed, but didn't even attempt to answer the question.

Severus watched his nervous fidgeting for a moment, biding his time. "In truth, I would not be surprised if you were sleeping," he said slowly. The shadow of hope that crossed Weasley's face was nearly pathetic. "You seem to have developed an alarming propensity for staring at me while waking, after all."

Faint horrorthere was an expression Severus was more accustomed to facing. "No, I haven't," Weasley said.

"Do not lie to me, boy." Severus leaned forward. "Unlike some, I am not completely oblivious to my surroundings. Your behavior has progressed from a mild irritation to a disruption of my class and I wish to know why."

"II don't know."

"That is not an adequate answer."

"I mean it." The boy looked desperate now, nearly panicky. "I don't know."

"Do you mean that you are ignorant of the contents of your own mind or that you are too incapable to explain yourself?"

"I mean _I don't know!"_ Weasley half-shouted. And he glared.

Severus pounced. _"Legilimens."_

He was plunged into a mind disorganized by emotionfear and panic and rage and something else Severus could not fully name. He groped through Weasley's memories, and found himself wandering the corridors of Twelve Grimmauld Place, lying in a hospital bed, struggling against a slimy tentacled monster in a world distorted beyond reason and sense

staring at himself, fifteen years younger, face warped by disgust. _"You ignorant, naïve, pampered little brat, did you think this was some sort of game?"_

laying back amidst sweaty sheets, writhing against his loverthe brief and mind-bending illusion of being buggered by himself

Severus wrenched himself out of Weasley's mind as pain thrilled down his arms from shoulder to wrist. The boy was doubled over in his seat, arms folded underneath himself, gasping for breath. Severus quickly rose to his feet and wrenched up one uniform sleeve: deep scars wound their way across Weasley's skin, inflamed and warm to the touch.

Weasley pulled his arm away and glared savagely. Severus stepped back, slowly, to avoid giving the impression of yielding. "You may go, Mr. Weasley. Speak of this to no one."

The boy stiffly lifted his bag and fled the room, not quite running, but barely. After a few moments' contemplation, Severus cast a handful of Floo powder into his grate. "Headmaster! A word, if you please!"

A moment's delay, then a voice from the flames. "Certainly, Severus. You may come directly up."

Severus stepped through the grate and emerged in Dumbledore's office, where the portraits were all feigning sleep and a half-molted phoenix sat on the edge of the desk. "Would I be right in guessing," Dumbledore said, "that this concerns Mr. Potter, Severus?"

"It does not," he said stiffly, unable to enjoy the rare treat of surprising the old man. "It concerns Mr. Weasley."

One noble silver eyebrow rose tremendously. "Does it?"

"I understand the boy was involved in an accident at the Ministry of Magic some months ago."

"He ran afoul of one of the experiments in the Department of Mysteries, yes."

"What sort of an experiment?" Severus asked.

Dumbledore watched him for a moment, and Severus kept his mind carefully blank. "As I understand it, it was an investigation into the subject of thought."

The facts began to fall together in an unsettling pattern. "Whose thoughts, Headmaster?" he asked.

"Obviously those of someone the Ministry deem sufficiently interesting to preserve." Dumbledore stroked the rumpled little bird's head a moment. "Is there a problem with Mr. Weasley, Severus?"

"None in particular," Severus replied. "Thank you, Headmaster."

"Good afternoon."

-x-X-x-X-x-

He ignored it. He had no choice but to ignore it. The presence of those particular memories in Weasley's brain was an extraordinary coincidence, but there was no reason to take any extraordinary measures because of it. They were harming no one and nothing except for Weasley's marks, which were not Severus' responsibility. And the past belonged in the past.

So Severus accepted Weasley's blank staring and did his best to forget the boy existed. He shut out the staff room gossip when it turned to Weasley's increasingly erratic behavior, and he found new excuses to avoid Dumbledore and his infuriatingly piercing glances. He focused his attention on other students, other classes, his work for the Order and his private research. He did not think of Weasley or what misplaced thoughts might be swirling in his brain.

He could not ignore, however, when one of the first-year Slytherins came to his office late one night, looking frankly terrified, thought not of him. "P-professor Snape?"

"It is past your curfew, Miss Sloane," Severus said. "You should be in the common room."

"We can't get in, professor."

"If you've forgotten the password, you can ask one of the prefects."

"No, professor, I meanthere's a boy outside the common room and we can't get by him."

Severus looked up; the girl was practically trembling in her shoes. "What do you mean?"

"He keeps walking around in front of the common room talking to himself," she said quickly. "He looks sickI don't think he's supposed to be there, sir, Flaherty thinks he's a Gryffindor"

Severus set aside his quill and strode towards the Slytherin common room. A clot of younger students were loitering uneasily at the end of the corridor, and over their heads Severus saw more or less precisely what he had feared: Weasley, groping his way along the walls like a blind man, mumbling under his breath.

He understood why the students were unwilling to approach him; Weasley was pale as milk, but his eyes were fever-bright, and he seemed completely unaware of his surroundings. Severus nudged through the watching crowd with his wand in his hand. "Mr. Weasley, what do you think you are doing?"

Weasley didn't react, but Severus was now clear enough to hear some of what he was muttering. "...used to be right here...password...ashwinder? python? anaconda...stupid bloody password..."

"Mr. Weasley," Severus tried again.

"...salazar...no, salazar was...was before..."

The voice was the same, but the accent and inflection were completely different, almost as though he were imitating someone elsesomeone Severus knew. He seized the boy's wrist and felt the protruding tendons, the swollen scars, the butterfly beat of his pulse. "Regulus," he hissed softly.

Weasley's eyes turned towards him, and there was a terrible flicker of recognition. "Severus," he said. "Severus, I've forgotten the password"

The boy's legs gave out, and Severus barely caught his weight in time. He glanced over his shoulder at the Slytherin students who were watching, transfixed. "Flaherty," he snapped, shocking at least one of them out of his trance. "Go to the hospital wing and inform Madame Pomfrey that a student is ill."

Flaherty took off running; Severus tried to hoist Weasley to his feet. Weasley only tightened his grip on Severus' robes and pressed his face into Severus' neck. "Missed you," he whispered.

Severus breathed deeply. "WRlisten to me," he said. "You are very sick. I am going to take you to the hospital wing."

"Missed you a lot." The boy kissed his jawline, soft and dry. "But you let themlet them find mehurt"

Weasley shuddered and fainted. Severus quickly conjured a stretcher and dumped the limp body onto it. He turned to the other students. "It is past your curfew," he snapped. "If any of you are not in your dormitories when I return, it will be a detention for the entire year."

The Slytherins surged past him, giving the stretcher wide berth. Without looking at its occupant, Severus floated the stretcher before him and made his way to the hospital wing as rapidly as was dignified.

He passed the stretcher off to Poppy Pomfrey at the hospital wing door with scarcely any comment. He escorted Flaherty back to Slytherin. He spent half an hour restoring order in the common room, where the younger students had been spreading distorted reports about what they'd seen and the older students had quickly worked out the identity of the would-be intruder. He threatened a thoroughly over-excited Malfoy with detention, and ordered the rest of the students to keep these events to themselves while knowing full well that the rumors would be all over the school by breakfast; in such a situation, making the effort was sufficient.

Only when his students had been seen to and the dungeons were quiet again did he allow himself to return to his office, shut the door, and shake. He fought the temptation to fur his nerves with alcohol and instead collapsed at his desk, breathing slowly to counter the rhythm of his heart. "Regulus Black is dead," he announced to the walls, seeking what cold comfort the noise could provide. Dead but not gone; forgotten but remembered by one. No, this was irrational; ghosts could not possess the living. He had seen inside Weasley's mind himself and had sensed no cloud of bewitchment, no plurality of wills. Whatever shadow of Regulus had been preserved in the Department of Mysteries, whatever shred of that shadow had found their way into Weasley's mind, it did not constitute the living man.

He thought of the warm breath on his neck, the uncanny familiarity in the voice.

Didn't it?

"Severus?" A voice from the fire jarred him badly, worse than it should have. "Severus, have you got a moment?"

"What is it, Poppy?"

The nurse's head poked out of the flames; he leaned low over the hearth. "Severus, I've run short of chamomile and Phyllodia's already in bed. Have you any to spare?"

"Naturally. How much do you need?"

"Quite a bitit's for the Weasley boy."

"I'll bring it up personally."

"Thank you, Severus."

He waited ten minutes after the fire had gone cold, until he was positive his nerves were in hand, before gathering the requested herb and making his way back to the hospital wing.

He found the boy's parents already there, as well as his sister andnaturallyPotter and Granger, all huddled around the headmaster, near a curtained bed. Dumbledore was speaking: "...not precisely possession. It is my belief that Ronald may have absorbed some of the thought and memories of another witch or wizard as a result of his accident in the Department of Mysteries in June."

"But how could that make him sick?" Granger asked. "They're just memories, aren't they?"

_Ignorant child,_ Severus thought, _ask the girl standing beside you how much harm a memory can do._

But Dumbledore was already answering: "We are in a very real sense, Miss Granger, the products of our pasts. Our memories help us to define ourselves and our identities. Ron cannot, I believe, distinguish his own memories with the ones that have been thrust upon him, and is left struggling to reconcile themin a sense, to integrate two very different identities into one. His physical condition is merely a consequence of this mental conflict."

"But he can be treated, can't he?" Arthur said anxiously. "You cancan get the bad thoughts out?"

There was an uncomfortable pause during which Dumbledore looked carefully at his auditors. "If we can separate the invasive memories from his own, the treatment will be as simple as Obliviation."

"And if you can't?" Potter asked.

The headmaster seemed unwilling to respond; he probably wished to spare the family the unpleasant news. Severus had no such compunctions, and stepped forward. "He will become insane."

Arthur and Molly started; Potter turned around with pure venom in his glare. Dumbledore, however, simply peered calmly over the rims of his glasses. "Severus. I understand you were the one who found Ronald during his most recent episode?"

"If you mean I prevented him further traumatizing my first-years, then yes."

Potter suddenly leapt forward, quivering with self-righteous indignation. "You started this!" he roared, as Granger struggled to pull him back. "Ron was fine until we started your class!"

"Ignorant brat, do you listen?" Severus sneered. "This is the result of your little adventure at the Ministry last term. If you wish to blame anyone for your dear friend's condition, look the one who led him there."

"Severus," Dumbledore said, but the point had been scored; Potter's face whitened, and he staggered back as if struck. "I was wondering if Ronald said or did anything that might suggest a way to filter out the foreign memories?"

With a mind like a pane of ice, Severus met Dumbledore's calm blue eyes. He considered the question for the briefest possible moment before responding. "No, Headmaster, he did not."

-x-X-x-X-x-

After such a performance, Severus expected it; he very nearly anticipated it. While Dumbledore inquired at the Department of Mysteries, the boy was kept in the hospital wing, though by all reports his mental state was improving. Severus did not take heart from this. Not even the greatest wizard of the age could casually pierce through bureaucracy, and the days dragged out precariously while the rumors among the students flowed like water. Severus did not acknowledge them. Evening after evening passed without incident, and Severus only waited for what he was certain would come.

When it did happen, he supposed he should've been thankful that it happened after hours, in his quarters, rather than somewhere more public. He was marking papers when he heard the door to his quarters swing open, and uneven footsteps cross the carpet. A hoarse voice whispered, barely audible: "Severus."

"Who are you?" he asked, quite calmly.

"...I don't know."

Severus turned; the boy was standing half-shadowed in the doorway, leaning heavily against the frame. He was wearing nothing but hospital pajamas, which were too short in the sleeve to fully conceal the ruddy scars winding up his arms. Ah, Poppy, so slack about securing the doors. "You are Ronald Weasley, and you have no business in my quarters," Severus said flatly.

The boy wobbled a bit in place but didn't speak.

Licking his lips, Severus tried again. "You are Regulus Black, and you have been dead sixteen years."

The boy took a staggering step forward, then giggled madly. "I died the same year I was born...."

Severus lifted his wand to raise the lights, but hesitated. "You should return to the hospital wing," he said without a great deal of enthusiasm.

The boy took another step, and Severus leapt to his feet to steady him before he fell into the fire. The boy immediately embraced him, curling as close as Severus would allow. "You told them where I was," he said softly, almost petulantly. "You let them find me."

"I did." Severus guided the boy into a chair before he fainted again. "I reported your location exactly as you told me."

"I trusted you," the boy whimpered.

"You should not have."

Severus pried the long, trembling fingers from his robes and took a seat opposite the boy. In the shadows all colors were muted; the distinctive red hair was reduced to a ruddy brown, the blue eyes faded to a more familiar gray. "I was frightened," the boy said.

"You were pampered, naïve, idealistic and weak of both stomach and mind," Severus added. "And you should've recognized that an oath to the Dark Lord binds for life."

His right hand flew to his left arm, rubbing the place where no tattoo had ever been. "It's gone now, though."

"It is."

"It still hurts."

Severus gazed at the disfiguring scars. "I imagine that it does."

The boy took a deep, shaky breath. "It hurt," he said, the understatement of the year. " But then...then it stopped. Everything stopped. No pain...no sight, no sound...nothing...not until..."

"Why did you come here?" Severus asked, before that train of recollection overwhelmed the boy's ability to process.

"Why did you tell them?" he countered.

Severus leaned back in his chair. "I suppose I was frightened as well."

"And did you really switch sides, after?" This question was bolder, more Weasleyish in tone; another mental corner had been turned, another cycle was reaching its nadir. This conversation would soon be over.

"I did," Severus said. "Not long after, in fact."

"Why?"

He chose his words carefully; Weasley would want simplicity, Regulus would want to be flattered. "Because killing you did not assuage my fear."

"Oh."

Severus turned to his desk, capping the inkwell and setting aside the quill; the boy would need an escort back to the hospital wing. He was straightening the piled of essays when he felt clammy palms glide up his sides and warm breath at his ear. "I loved you, you know," Regulus whispered. "I still do."

"You do not understand what you are saying."

"I do." A sweaty face nuzzled the side of his neck; the boy was already taller than he was. "I remember. I had tothere wasn't anything, no sound, no touchbut I remembered you."

Severus supposed this should flatter him; in a way it did. He turned, slowly, and the boy collapsed into his arms. "Even though I betrayed you?"

"Even though." He giggled a bit, softly kissing Severus' neck. "Madness runs in the family."

"It practically gallops."

If Severus shut his eyes, the illusion was good; the voice was similar enough, and though this boy was too tall, the build was nearly the sameRegulus had always said his mother made him too nervous to eatso different from his brother. Both dead in the end, from much the same flaw. But this body under his hands now was living, breathing, movingprofessing love and responding to their proximity in a way that only a sixteen-year-old could. A student; a ghost. A confessor, if Severus was honest with himself. Small nips and licks climbed his neck to his jaw, a peach-fuzzy check brushed his own.

Severus had been alone for a very long time.

He caught the boy's mouth and kissed him, turning a puppy-sloppy snog into something softer, slower, sensual. The boy whimpered and rubbed up against him; Severus pulled back, and guided the boy into the pitch-black bedroom. He undressed them both, slowly, careful to avoid the raw-looking wounds on the boy's arms, and spent a few moments simply feeling, familiarizing himself with the contours of a body that was not quite the same as he remembered, but close enough.

"Severus, please," the boy whimpered, arching his hips blindly into the air.

Severus kissed him softly. "Roll over."

The boy rolled; rolled and spread his legs like a harlot, practically asking. Severus carefully pushed the boy's knees together. "What are youcan we do it like this?"

The uncertain quaver broke character and Severus faltered, just a bit. "Of course we can," he said. "Squeeze tightly."

He conjured just enough lubricant to facilitate the process and positioned himself. His penis slid easily between the boy's thighs, sliding along the perineumthe boy whimpered and tried to touch himself. Severus seized his hands and pinned them to the mattress. "Severus, _please,"_ he groaned.

"Patience." Severus thrust; those long pale thighs clenched around him. The great unsung benefit of Quidditch. He tried to angle his stroke to hit the sensitive spot behind the boy's balls, and earned a soft moan in responseperfect. Another experimental thrust, and then he picked up a punishing rhythm, driving the boy forward on the mattress with a shocking slap of skin on skin, again and again.

The boy was mewling, moaningSeverus was not certain which name produced which particular strings of obscenities, was not certain it mattered. When he felt his orgasm begin, he released one of the boy's hands just long enough to seize his erection and stroked quickly. The boy came almost immediately with an un-Regulus-like howl, shaking so violently Severus briefly feared his might faintthat he had finally made the mental shift back to the name he'd been born with.

But, no. As Severus untangled himself from the limp body beneath him, he caught a faint, satisfied sigh. And when he dared light a candle with a flick of his wand, the boy was watching him, flushed and drowsy and smiling with soft affection. "Love you," he whispered, and gently squeezed Severus' hand.

"You should rest," Severus told him. The boy shut his eyes and snuggled into Severus' chest; Severus wrapped one around his back and let him lay close, listened carefully to his breathing, rolling his wand between his fingers. When he was certain the boy was close to sleep, he nudged him softly. "Regulus."

One eye opened slowly in the shadows, and Severus focused on it. It could have been blue. It could have been gray. "Mmm?"

_"Legilimens."_

The boy's mind was drowsy and defenseless, open wide. Severus briefly drifted through the jagged fractures of thought, let the suffusing warmth of genuine love surround him. Perhaps it came from Regulus, or from Weasley, or from some place where both met in clumsy communion; it was not important to his purposes. He shuffled through a jumble of memories, seeking the ones with the shape and feel of Regulus Black, drawing them out as a poultice drawing poison from a wound. Some were entrenched, blurring into Weasley's own thoughts, a single thing; Severus collected those, too. He held them aside and searched them thoroughly, ragged things though they were, the last living remnants of a foolish young man with more heart than brains or spine.

In the physical world, he raised his wand; he would begin with tonight. _"Obliviate."_


End file.
